


The Thalassic Delay

by madrabbitgirl



Series: The Aquatic Equation [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Paranormal AU, Canon-Typical Violence, John Watson Solo Fic, John Watson curses a lot, John Whump, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Merman Sherlock, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Pre reunion fic, Pre-Slash, Reichenbach Feels, Set in America/Philadelphia, The Aquatic Equation Universe, creaturelock, ghost story, merman au, usually fluff and crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25185586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: The worst part of grieving someone is that it sometimes hits you when you least expect it. Triggers can be small. Maybe you’re out on a date and the mug your coffee is served in resembles their favorite cup. Maybe you see someone wearing a blue scarf out of the corner of your eye and you turn, expecting them to be there, and it’s a stranger, instead.Tired of being in the city that reminded him too much of his dead friend, John decides to visit an old Army buddy for a weekend away. Between the mysterious emails from a woman named Lucy and the secrets that Bill himself seems to be hiding, it looks like it's John's turn to play detective.Set in the Aquatic Equation Universe.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Aquatic Equation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657210
Comments: 15
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> * This is set during the Hiatus. If you have not read The Aquatic Equation (NOT The Aquatic Equation Drabbles), it may not make sense as it's set in that world.

The worst part of grieving someone is that it sometimes hits you when you least expect it. Triggers can be small. Maybe you’re out on a date and the mug your coffee is served in resembles their favorite cup. Maybe you’re walking past an obnoxiously blue bar, now under new ownership, and without realizing it you’re reliving every moment the two of you had together. Maybe you see someone wearing a blue scarf out of the corner of your eye and you turn, expecting them to be there, and it’s a stranger, instead. 

Maybe it hits you on a random Thursday afternoon for no reason at all and with no apparent trigger, which is how John found himself sitting at his desk, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, trying desperately not to remember all the things he was trying to forget. Time, his therapist said, would soften these moments, but Sherlock was right about her being a useless provider. 

Fuck. Sherlock. Holmes.

John leaned over his desk and tried to take in deep, even breaths. Slow and steady. Count in, hold, and out two-three-four. Deep breathing was not going to stop the swell of guilt that covered his body in shivers and coated his stomach in nausea. Guilt because he couldn’t save either of them. Guilt because he knew he would’ve saved Sherlock if he’d been given any kind of choice. Guilt because he was a doctor and a soldier, God dammit, and what was the point of being either if in the end he’d watched two brilliant people be snuffed out right before his eyes. Time was shit. Ella was shit. Life was shit.

“Dr. Watson?” the receptionist called tentatively through his office door, rapping on the solid, heavy fiberglass panel. It was an ugly, spotted green color that matched the office’s old early nineties decor. If he’d had his own practice, he’d have updated long ago but being in with a group meant a lot of talking and very little actually getting done about anything.

John cleared his throat, straightening and rubbing at his eyes to make sure any traitorous moisture was wiped away before he answered her. “Come in, Nadine.” 

“I just wanted to let you know that your one thirty cancelled, sir. It was a double so you have a pretty large break to fill,” Nadine told him. She flashed brilliantly white teeth at him in a suggestive smile. “In case you want to get some lunch or something.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” John said, returning her overly-friendly smile with a grateful one. He dreaded having such a wide gap of time in his schedule. Gaps allowed those invasive little memories to creep back into his mind, forcing him to relive all of the events of the past. Nadine smiled at him once more, a little disappointed that he didn’t seem inclined to have lunch with her, and she left, closing the door behind her. 

The food in the staff canteen on the bottom floor of the hospital was barely edible, so John decided to take a walk to get some coffee and enjoy the brisk spring air on his face. Everywhere on the Hill it seemed like life was going on. The little shops were open and bustling, the cafes were starting to put out tables for seating in the chilly air and the buses rolled up the cobblestone streets, causing a rumbling noise that sounded like thunder. The coffee shop at the top of the Hill was packed and it took a good bit of time to get out of there, but John found himself settled on a bench outside with his coffee and a pastry, sorting through his emails as he ate. 

Without Sherlock to write about, he’d been slacking off on his blog posts, so most of the comments he was getting were spam bots. There were a few from some woman named Lucy asking to speak with him, but he ignored those as well. An old acquaintance of Sherlock’s, a gossipy young man named Langdale Pike, had forwarded John another article with a supposed sighting from a tabloid. John rolled his eyes, but then closed them, squeezing tightly as the unbidden image of Sherlock going over the railing played out in his mind. He growled and hit delete without reading it. 

Delete, delete, delete.

Lucy’s last name turned out to be Ferrier. She was tired of him ignoring her comments on the blog, apparently, and had unearthed his personal email and sent him a message to request an in-person interview. Journalists, gossip bloggers, they were all the same. They never gave up when they wanted something to write about. Pike’s popular Instagram was a never ending source of drama. Ferrier, well, John couldn’t find anything with a quick Google search about her but only journalists called Sherlock’s death the “Franklin Fall”, so he assumed she wasn’t any different than the others. 

Bloodthirsty bastards.

The sender of the last message was a welcome change. Bill Murray. John frowned, staring down at the name before opening the message to read what his old army friend had to say. There had been a time when they’d been as thick as thieves and Bill had even saved John’s life, but that was years ago. Last he’d heard, Bill and his new wife Trudy had settled somewhere in bum-fuck Maryland near one of the bases. 

_John,  
Hey man! It’s been a long time. I heard about your friend, such a shame. We’d love for you to come visit. I was talking to my neighbor about my time in the service and it made me think of you and how long it’s really been. Come stay with us for a few days. We’d love to see you._

_Let me know when works for you._

_-Bill_

John considered that, with his lips pressed tight with stress. It had been a long time since he’d left the city. Definitely before Sherlock had- well, that was over a year ago, so it had to be long before that. A drive down to Maryland and spending the weekend with a friend sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

***

Maryland gave John hives.

It was too quiet and superbly boring. Oh, sure, at one point he might have enjoyed the long drive from Philly to wherever the hell it was Bill lived, but the hours of just listening to the radio as he drove through what had to be Amish country gave him too much room to think and he ended up hating it. There had been a case once, just after he’d started living with Sherlock, when they’d been called out to rural Pennsylvania. Sherlock had scoffed at John’s appreciation for the change in scenery. 

“You would say something like that,” Sherlock told him, smirking at him condescendingly. “Personally, I have more safety in the most treacherous alleys and back streets of the city than I ever have in the falsely beautiful facade of the countryside.” 

It made John feel like an idiot for enjoying the pretty scenery at the time, yet even now he’d give anything to hear that stupidly patronizing voice one more time. To see the quirk of those thick brows, the slight tilt of the lips in that smile that seemed to only exist for John, as though they were both in on the same joke that no one else knew…. 

Rest and relaxation were all well and good except when they gave John too much time to wish that things had been different. Some ghosts just never really leave. 

“Johnny!” Bill exclaimed delightedly, meeting John at the door of his quaint old home. It was a green painted brick building in a historic little town that reminded John of Chestnut Hill back home. At one point he was sure the house had probably looked cheerful outside, but now the green paint was dirty and peeling in some places, revealing scars of red underneath, and a few of the shutters were loose and starting to fall. Bare window boxes slashed across the outside of the building, contrasting with the neighbor’s brightly filled boxes. 

John grinned at him, though, excited to see his friend and relieved to be out of the car. He hated the nickname ‘Johnny’. Harry had used it too often for his liking, and although he’d repeatedly asked Bill to stop, it never happened. “You’re looking good, Bill.” 

That was a lie, too. Bill did not, in fact, look well. The Bill Murray who had hauled John out of the desert had been a healthy, stocky man with bright brown eyes and perfectly trimmed, military short hair. Now his hair was long, curling over his collarbone, but not in a way that suggested he’d decided to suddenly grow it out, more like he just hadn’t bothered to get it cut in a long time. Bill’s skin seemed to hang off his bones, and the desert tan had long since faded, leaving behind a sickly gray-green tinge. John had seen that sort of coloring on patients who had been ill for a long time. Bill’s clothes draped on him, too large, and severely worn. As they embraced, John could feel the shrinking frame of the once muscular man. 

“You are, too,” Bill replied, patting John on the back. “Come in, come in. You’ve had a long drive.” 

After a brief tour of the house, Bill dragged him out on the back porch with two beers. They settled in a pair of lawn chairs, chatting and catching up. 

“How’s Trudy been?” John asked, looking around at the neglected garden. Most of the plants were half-dead and weeds were growing up between them. Bill snorted.

“She’s taken up gardening,” he said, motioning to the plants. “As you can see, she’s a natural.” It didn’t look like a failed garden attempt, John thought although he kept it to himself. It looked abandoned, like everything else in the house. Bill quickly changed the subject to army friends and the good old days, how everyone seemed to be having kids or even grandkids now. John filled in with some of his more humorous encounters with patients. 

“You always were a good storyteller, John. I know, I know, you enjoyed being a soldier and you don’t hate your day job,” Bill said, giving him a grin, “but you were always one for stories.” 

“Well, it’s how you get the girls to go home with you. Good stories win them over every time,” John teased, knowing full well he was full of crap. 

“And some of the guys, if I remember right,” Bill pointed out. John wrinkled his nose and took a swig of beer. 

“Variety is the spice of life, they say,” he finally murmured. It was the closest he’d ever come to openly admitting that he was ever anything other than straight. “I never told you about it, though.” 

“Well, first off, you didn’t have to. You had a tendency to pick a lot of talkers, John, and they told stories of their own. But you could have. I wouldn’t have judged you,” Bill said. He sighed, taking a drink as well, and letting a few moments pass. John couldn’t put his finger on it, but something in Bill’s demeanor seemed suddenly very sad. “You know it doesn't change you. You’re still you, John.” 

If John could have crawled under Trudy’s half-dead plants just to escape this conversation, he would have buried himself in her garden right then and there. “I know that.” 

He was not surprised that Bill’s next sentence was, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“I never want to talk about it,” John replied, flashing his best, roguish smile at Bill. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. Bill smiled back, expression full of worry and concern. “There’s not much to say. I watched my best friend tip over the edge of a bridge with a madman and then never even got to see the body. His brother showed me photographs. It doesn’t feel real some days, but it’s hardly the most gruesome death we’ve seen.” 

“It’s more painful when it’s someone you care about,” Bill told him. John nodded along. “The worst is when it’s someone you love.” 

“Who said anything about love?” John asked, letting the smile fade from his face. 

“It’s written in every blog post and story you tell about him. You just have to read between the lines.” The day was fading. The sky was turning from orange to a dusky pink-purple, twilight blue edging in and the spring warmth tilting to cold. “I bet you’re starving and I forgot to grab something for us for dinner. There’s a good microbrewery a few blocks over and they do a great crab smothered pretzel. Let’s go get something to eat.” 

“Sure,” John agreed easily, ready for the previous conversation to be over. He tipped the remainder of his beer into his mouth, swallowing hard. “Is Trudy coming home soon? Should we wait for her?” 

“Nah, she’ll be alright. I never know her schedule anymore,” Bill said. His words held an evasive, secretive element, but John didn’t push further. 

The bar where they ended up was a short walk from Bill’s house. It was on a busy main street in the small town, taking up the entirety of a huge, antique building. There were four floors, all home to some aspect of the restaurant, and John pitied their servers just a little bit as they traipsed up and down the steep flights of stairs with their heavy trays of food. 

“This used to be the town hall, before they built the bigger building down the street. This place has been brewing their own beer for over a hundred years or some nonsense. They make all the new servers tell us the story every time we sit down,” Bill explained, rolling his eyes at John. They were perched in a shadowy corner on high-top stools around a small wooden bar table. The overly friendly waitress had taken their order with a few long, lingering glances at John that left him feeling warm. Bill sipped at his pale ale, nodding or waving to locals as they entered or left the establishment. “It’s one of the more quiet places. Some of these townies, they’re still rednecks at heart, and they get a little rowdy after dark.” 

“You never used to complain about that before,” John teased. 

“Yes, but we’re old now,” Bill snorted. 

“I’m sure if you weren’t married, you’d still be just as much of a ‘rowdy townie’ as the next of them,” John told him. Bill laughed, but before he could reply they were interrupted by a kind looking woman with a blond bob. She’d clearly had a few too many and her husband lingered near, with a nervous look that suggested he was ready to haul her away if she said anything offensive and that she was known for doing so. 

“Bill! Bill, sweetheart,” the woman was saying with gentle slurring in her words. “How’ve you been?” 

“I’ve been great, Maggie. John, this is my neighbor Maggie. She lives across from me, and that’s her husband, also a Jon,” Bill said, giving Maggie a tight smile. “John and I were in the army together.”

“Oh, that’s nice. So nice,” Maggie said, giving John a bare smile before turning her sad eyes back to Bill. “We haven’t seen you since the funeral, Bill. I’ve been so worried-” 

“Okay, that’s enough, dear. Let’s go,” her husband Also Jon said, dragging the woman off while she was still babbling. He cast an apologetic look at the table before they left. 

“Who died?” John asked before he could remember social tact and rephrase the question. “You never mentioned anyone being sick, I mean.” 

“You’re not really on social media much. It was um, a relative. Cancer,” Bill said, shifting uneasily in his chair. 

“God, Bill, you’re worried about me losing someone I barely knew,” John said, feeling like that was both a lie and not a lie, “but here you’ve actually lost someone you cared about. I’m so sorry. When was it?” 

“I’d rather not talk about it right now,” Bill said, taking a pointed sip of beer to remind John that he’d uttered those same words just a few hours ago. They were interrupted once more by the waitress bringing their food and slipping John one more wink and her phone number.

***

It was late by the time John crawled into bed, but he still wasn’t sleepy. Trudy still hadn’t been home when he’d excused himself to his room, leaving Bill waiting up for her and watching TV. Truthfully, he was relieved. He’d had enough socializing for one day. It left him thinking about his life in Philly and how empty he’d let it become. He and Lestrade barely spoke anymore because it was too hard. He never popped in to check on Mrs. Hudson. He’d threatened to hit Mycroft if he ever saw him again during one of his less controlled moments. He just went to work and avoided thinking about everything that had happened.

John squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t escape the vision of that face. 

Sherlock would scold him for being so sentimental. For having emotions, like a normal human being. For missing him, probably. Frustrated, John rolled over and picked up his phone. Bill was right, John mostly avoided social media, but here he was, in the dark, scrolling over his friend’s profile to see if there was any mention of the relative who’d died. Bill’s profile was actually pretty sparse, until about seven months ago when one or two people mentioned the funeral. John frowned. 

“It’s such a shame, she was so young,” one person wrote.

“Don’t worry, time heals all wounds.” John hissed involuntarily at that one. Would people ever stop saying that?

Before he could scroll further, a message popped up in his Inbox. Lucy Ferrier needed to leave him the motherfucking hell alone. He clicked over to her profile. There was no current headshot or photograph of her like other journalists. Her profile had no friends, no pictures, no status updates except for one link to that same article that Pike had sent him. 

“Dr. Watson, please message me back. I need to speak with you.” 

John deleted the message and threw his phone back on the table with a loud clack. He pressed his eyes shut once more, attempting to sleep in the unfamiliar room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite quotes from Holmes is “They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.” As I've moved from Philly to rural MD, where this fic is set, I have to say I agree with Holmes more often than not so I borrowed the sentiment.
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This is set during the Hiatus. If you have not read The Aquatic Equation, it may not make sense as it's set in that world.
> 
> * Half-beta'd by MadMags. More comments in the end notes.

John’s hands gripped the sink, staring down into the bowl, letting the soothing feel of cold porcelain press against his fevered fingers. He hadn’t slept well. Nightmares had taken him on a tour of the world before plopping him down in a strange, warped version of Baker Street where Moriarty’s river-bloated face grinned at him with pointed teeth. He was almost afraid that if he looked in the mirror over the bathroom sink he’d see that man rather than his own reflection, but when he finally lifted his throbbing head it was just a tired John Watson that gazed back at him with glassy blue eyes. 

He set about brushing his teeth, then splashed some cold water on his face. 

With a heavy sigh, he braced himself for what was going to be an awkward breakfast with Bill. Back in his room, he stripped out of his flannel pyjama bottoms and tee shirt, trading them for thick jeans, feeling the heavy denim scrape over his thighs as he pulled them up. He remembered a time at Baker Street where Sherlock had criticised his department store fashion sense, specifically how rough the fibers of his jeans were. At the time, all he’d been able to do was imagine Sherlock’s long fingers stroking over his legs. It never happened, but it was a nice image to have at the time. With a clean tee shirt and sweater thrown on, John trotted downstairs in search of his friend and a morning meal. He could hear Bill and Trudy in the kitchen, and he paused just outside of the door when he heard his name. 

“It’s a little hypocritical, telling John to get over his dead friend,” Trudy was saying. John hadn’t seen her in so long and he’d forgotten how friendly and warm her voice was, even when she was scolding her husband. She sounded like she was pretty close to the door where he was standing, actually, but he heard her footsteps as she moved away. 

“I know, I know, that’s not- that’s, um. Okay, so I wasn’t thinking about that when I invited him, it just slipped out,” Bill replied. John could hear the sounds of a chair scuffing against the floor and then the familiar ritualistic sounds of coffee being made. Someone was filling the carafe with water from the sink and pouring it into the reservoir. Soon, the inviting scent of coffee was wafting through the house, making John’s mouth water just a little. 

“You’re a kind man, Bill. You mean well enough, but you should take your own advice. It’s time to move on,” Trudy said. She sighed. “That part about reading between the lines, though. I’m surprised he didn’t deck you. The old Captain Watson would have had your balls for that. And since when do you pay attention to subtext?” 

“I might surprise you!” Bill chuckled. From his hiding place, John’s cheeks flamed and he scowled. Annoyed at their casual discussion of his… of his… whatever it was, John pushed open the door, ready to argue with his friend’s wife over said balls-

But she wasn’t there. Bill sat at the small kitchen table, blinking at John in surprise. There was no Trudy, no coffee waiting for the slightly hungover doctor, and the room seemed awfully cold. Bill cleared his throat. “Johnny, I didn’t hear you get up. I was waiting to see if you wanted to go for breakfast.” 

“I, um. But- I thought I heard Trudy?” John asked. The flush faded from his cheeks as confusion replaced it. “Wasn’t that- weren’t you just talking to her?” 

Bill’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his eyes flicked around the room, as if searching for something. He hesitated, then pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his shirt. “Oh, speaker. I- I had her on speaker. She’s still out. Um, at work, I mean.” 

John frowned. He’d most certainly heard her in the room and when she’d spoken there hadn’t been any of that distant, staticky background noise that came when you put someone on speaker. “Okay. Sure. You know, I think it might be nice to walk around for a bit. Do you mind if I go get some breakfast by myself instead?” 

“Of course not! This is your weekend,” Bill replied amiably, but his eyes wouldn’t meet John’s, leaving the doctor feeling a little suspicious. “I’ll putter around here for a while and we’ll meet back up for lunch, maybe?” 

John nodded. He shivered, really starting to feel how cold the room was, and then nodded again at Bill. “Yeah, see you around lunch time.” 

On the street, in the drizzly gray morning, John glanced back at the house. On the second floor, where their bedrooms were, he was almost sure he could see a woman watching him, but it was for such a fleeting moment that he doubted himself. What he could be sure of was that something was unsettling about Bill’s house and it was very odd that Trudy hadn’t been home the entire time John was visiting, not even to just say hello. It was plausible, he supposed as he walked, that she’d decided to let them visit in private and was staying with a friend or even out of town, but then why not just tell him that? Or were they having marital troubles and just didn’t want to talk about it? He was pretty sure she had a standard nine to five, so she wouldn’t really be at the office on a Saturday morning, would she?

Sherlock would know. If he were here. Or alive. He’d solve it in an instant. 

There was a small creek running through the downtown area, with several decorated brick footbridges crossing over them. On one of these picturesque little bridges, John paused and leaned on the damp railing to glance down into the murky water. The reflection of the yellow sun that was painted on the bricks rippled back, twisting into something that reminded him of that sinister face from his nightmares. He shut his eyes. 

Maybe a bridge, no matter how quaint, wasn’t the greatest spot to try and gather his thoughts. Sherlock’s body going over, Mary’s blood on his hands, and that one random case where he’d thought he’d seen Sherlock’s legs coated in blue scales and a tail all flashed back, causing nausea to bubble up into his throat. He barely held back the impulse to wretch into the creek. Inhaling rhythmically through his nose, he fought the bile back into his stomach. 

His phone buzzed with a notification. 

It took him a few counts in his head, to ten and back to one and back to ten again,before he could peel his eyes open. Luckily the threat of rain meant the area was fairly deserted and the people who were walking were staunchly ignoring his panic attack. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was another email notification. 

Lucy Ferrier, wanting to talk. John ignored it. 

He needed to get off the bridge and get some sense of equilibrium back, so he started to walk again towards what he hoped was an area with more restaurants and possibly a coffee shop. He was in luck and found a sweet, tiny mom and pop shop that reminded him of his college days. He ordered from the young girl working the register and waited for his coffee, glancing once more at his notifications to make sure Bill hadn’t tried to text him. Another popped up from this Lucy woman. She was relentless and apparently ignoring her wasn’t going to work.

“Would you like room for cream and sugar?” the kid asked as she filled his cup with a beverage that was more of a prop than anything he was going to consume. John shook his head. 

“No, thank you,” he said, accepting the full cup as she handed it over to him after sliding on a paper sleeve. 

“You sure you don’t want anything to eat? We make a really good breakfast sandwich,” the kid suggested. John gave her attempt to upsell him a tight smile. 

“I’m sure. Thanks, though,” he said, turning away from the register. 

“You should really try their bacon, egg and cheese,” one of the other customers suggested and John almost dropped his cup at the sight of her. 

Her brilliant red curls had been dyed a darker, muted brown, but it still swarmed over her shoulders like a storm cloud. Her eyes were bright and laughing at him, and around her throat was a verdant key that held an almost supernatural glow. “You really should eat something, John.” 

“Mary,” John whispered, brows drawing together in a frustrated scowl. She waved her mobile phone at him with a wink. 

“Lucy. And you never answered my messages,” the dead woman told him. She motioned to the chair in front of her, beckoning for him to join her at her table. He did, but only because he felt his leg begin to throb and he was unsure if he’d remain standing. He was, after all, seeing a ghost. 

“Am I crazy? You died,” John said, his voice hard with accusation. “I watched you. I watched both of you.” 

Mary’s smug smile faded and turned a little sad. She swallowed, averting her eyes to stare at the table. “You watched what you were meant to watch. I’m harder to kill than most.” 

“You bled out from your stomach,” John snapped, hand spasming around his cup. He set it down. When he spoke, his voice had turned into a hard growl. “I took your pulse. I’m a doctor, I know what a dead body looks like.” 

“Do you?” Mary asked flippantly, bringing her eyes back to his. John nearly threw his coffee at her. He also considered just getting up and walking away, but it occurred to him that he was a long way from his usual home and in a kind of remote place to begin with.

“How did you even find me?” John asked, frowning. Mary picked up her own cup of coffee to take a sip, not even trying to look contrite or sorry. 

“John, I spent several years working for a criminal mastermind. Tracking your phone location is the least impressive thing I can do,” Mary told him. He scowled at her and tried another question.

“Okay. Why did you come here to find me?” He watched her every move, wondering to some degree if she was really there, alive and in front of him, breathing. It seemed like a continuation of his nightmares more than reality. 

“You stopped writing your blog. I was worried,” she said. He rolled his eyes at her. “It’s partially true, at any rate. Maybe I’m a harbinger. You ever consider that?” 

“A harbinger? Of what, Death?” John asked, and she only laughed at him. 

“I would be the harbinger of resurrection, if that were the case.” Mary chewed on her lip nervously, leaning forward to touch his hand. “I’m not the only one who noticed you’d stopped writing. I’m not the only one who was worried. I’m here, John. I’m real. I’m alive.” 

“But _why_ are you here?” 

“I dunno, I’m really starting to warm up to the harbinger idea. Maybe my presence is just a warning that not everything is as it seems,” Mary said, watching as he slid his hand away from hers. “I was worried about you and how things were left. I needed you to know I wasn’t dead. It’s important, John. Not to mention I’ve read your therapy notes. You seem very hung up on the idea that we’d both passed away and you have to know it wasn’t your fault.” 

Her touch was so real. This couldn’t possibly be a dream. He shook his head, rubbing both hands over his face before pressing his eyes into his palms to block her out. “No. No, no, no, because if you’re here, that- that does things, Mary. That-” 

That might mean Sherlock wasn’t-

If Mary was, and he’d felt her dead body with his own hands- If Mary was here, then did that-

“I can’t. I cannot do this,” John stated firmly, and he stood, forgetting his coffee or even where he was. “You have raised more questions than you’ve answered.” 

“John, if I could-” Mary started, twisting in her seat to watch him as he walked away. He held up his hands. 

“No. Just no. Go away. I want nothing more to do with you,” John snapped. “You were working for a psychopath who killed my best friend with his bare hands. I watched you bleed out- what was that even for, was that a sniper or why- I just, I just can’t anymore. Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.” 

The doorbell clattered as he slammed his way out of the shop. He’d forgotten all about the coffee. He wanted to forget about everything.

***

John found a park nearby and sat there for a few hours, trying to gather his thoughts from a damp bench, until he realized the name of the park was Baker and he was staring at a row of Victorian houses, very cute and picturesque, that were all in the 200 block of that street. He fumed quietly for a few more minutes after that revelation, although the writer in him started to wonder if there were a million universes in which he and Sherlock would find Baker Street and each other. Perhaps there were Victorian versions of them, or futuristic space versions or gothic versions, all linked back to that first meeting and moving into their home together. Maybe in every universe they found each other, only to be ripped apart again.

Were there other Marys in the alternative universes? Were there Bills and Mrs. Hudsons and Lestrades?

In the end, that thought comforted him enough to calm down and just as he was gearing up to walk back to Bill’s house, someone sat down on the other side of the bench from him. Fearing it was Mary back for round two, he turned to look at the interloper. Bill gave him a sad smile.

“You didn’t come back, so I figured I’d come looking for you,” he explained. The wet day had turned sunny, but the spring air remained damp and chilly. A gentle breeze ruffled Bill’s hair as he spoke. 

“I was about to come back now. I lost track of time,” John said, feeling embarrassed that he’d ditched his friend for so long. “I’m sorry about earlier. I just- I had a rough night. You know how the nightmares can be.” 

“I do,” Bill agreed, nodding his head. He sighed. “John, I haven’t been truthful with you. And I’m sorry.” 

“Look, Bill, you don’t need to explain-”

“Trudy’s dead, John.” 

John felt all the blood stealing from his limbs as shock settled in. He blinked rapidly, trying to process what Bill had just admitted. “But- But you said-” 

“I’m having a hard time letting her go,” Bill told him. He looked away from John, tilted to the side and staring up at the sky, or the trees, it was hard to say. “It was quick and very sudden. Sometimes it’s just easier to pretend she’s still here. But I can’t tell you to get over your friend while at the same time having an imaginary wife.” 

“She’s- She’s not imaginary. She’s your wife,” John managed, reaching out to grip Bill’s shoulder. He patted it once, until the man turned back to him, and then he dropped his hand. “You told me it’s hard to get over someone you love. That’s true. Sometimes I wish I could- I wish I could do it over. Say good-bye properly, or save him or something. Sometimes I forget he’s gone and I think he’s in the room with me. You’re grieving. There’s nothing imaginary about that.” 

Bill gave John a weak smile, but it looked genuine, at least. “That’s the most you’ve ever said about it, isn’t it?” 

John snorted. “At least I’m not playing pretend with my Mrs.” 

“No, I bet you’d have been the Mrs. in that equation, going by your blog posts,” Bill said, shoving at John’s shoulder. John’s lips broke into a real smile and he shoved back gently. 

“Shut up, it wasn’t like that,” he said. He squinted as the sun shone through the clouds, brightening up the park even more. “Are you hungry? We should eat.” 

“Yeah, let’s go grab something. Do you like pho? We’ve had like, seven of those places open up in the last year but the best one-” 

John followed along while Bill prattled on about the best places to buy pho in town, noticing that, at the very least, the man seemed lighter having gotten his secret off of his chest. It still didn’t explain how he’d heard Trudy’s voice earlier that morning, or how that voice had known what he and Bill talked about, but Mary’s reappearance made him want to not examine things too closely. That night, after more food and several more beers and maybe even one naughty cigarette bummed off a townie who was smoking outside of one of the bars that evening, John slept without any nightmares for the first time since his friend’s death. 

“I’m glad you came, John,” Bill said, patting him on the back as they hugged goodbye the next morning. “Keep in touch. I’ll email you more, or something.” 

“Yeah, we say that now, but you know it won’t happen,” John teased. He tried not to glance up at the second level of the home where he could have sworn he saw the curtains twitching again. Ghosts, invisible wives, whatever might have been happening, he just hoped Bill would be alright and he’d rather not know the particulars.

_Whenever you eliminate the impossible…_

John tossed his bag into the backseat of his car and started off, not exactly eager to be on his way back to his small Philadelphia studio apartment. It seemed really lonely, but he also felt more optimistic than usual. He felt like everything would be okay for the first time in a long, long time. As he pulled his car onto the main street, cruising one last time down through the historic district, he saw a familiar woman strolling along on the side of the road. He rolled his eyes and pulled over, honking to get Mary’s attention. She grinned and skipped over to the passenger side, leaning down to speak through his open window. 

“Hey mister, you going my way?” she asked, winking at him. He huffed, but hit the unlock button. 

“Which way is that, because I’m going back to Philly,” John told her. She slid in, closing the door behind her. He watched her buckle her seatbelt before he pulled off again, threading his way back into traffic.

“Aces!” she said, and he winced at her old-fashioned choice of slang. “Drop me in Baltimore on your way up ninety-five. I’ve got a person to see about a werewolf.” 

“You are completely bonkers, you know that?” John laughed, enjoying the breeze through the open window and the giggling woman at his side. “Absolutely insane.” 

“Yeah,” Mary agreed, reaching out to fiddle with his radio settings. “But I’m your kind of insane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)

**Author's Note:**

> * Since we're in an alternate universe and I'm not ready to bring this particular plague into the A.E. World, I'm writing as though there isn't one for the purpose of this fic. I started the Aquatic Equation in 2012 so theoretically this could even be a few years before COVID 19 anyway. 
> 
> * Half-beta'd by MadMags.
> 
> * If you enjoyed this, please consider reading my other works. 
> 
> The Aquatic Equation sequel, The Pelagic Solution, should start posting soon. Thank you so much for reading!


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